


Bread

by skipnaught



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Developing Relationship, Fluff, Friendship, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-18
Updated: 2015-07-18
Packaged: 2018-04-09 22:44:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4367081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skipnaught/pseuds/skipnaught
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Life's heavy for Roy Mustang. With a Mathematics class to be passing and a football scholarship to be achieving, he hardly has time for his characteristic love games - especially not those that involve cashiers from Subway.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bread

**Author's Note:**

> Well~  
> Here's the first chunk of the Subway AU you totally never knew you needed. 8) Took me wayyyy too long to write, lol, and the rest is coming... soon? 
> 
> Beta'd by me (again), and I'm currently looking for someone to be my regular beta. If any of you guys are interested, feel free to hit me up.

Trigonometry. Trigonometry – with all its algebraic components and alternate angles and sines/cosines/fucking tangents – is potentially the one and only _true_ arch nemesis Roy Mustang has ever had. What makes matters eternally worse is that he _knows_ that once he’s failed this glorious unit there’ll be Calculus. 

The thought kind of makes the idea of throwing himself out the nearest window just a little more attractive, but it still hasn’t got the looks to beat down its fiercest contender – the opposing idea of heading up to Subway to grab a sandwich full of various vegies that are secretly made of plastic. It’s simple, and it’s how life works – everyone knows Valeria Lukyanova’s always going to be the successor of whatever success can be reaped from, and she’s made of plastic too (albeit not in such an ambiguous fashion).

So it turns out that Roy’s seated at a grubby two-seater table, eagerly awaiting whichever pimple-faced kid’s on shift to return to the counter and serve him so he can resume sliding his Nikes back and forth through the rotting lettuce the place is virtually carpeted with. It’s going to be a while yet, so he leans back in his chair and eventually finds his thoughts drifting to his pals – who he left behind at the school known colloquially as “the hill” to anyone who isn’t someone on the Student Welfare Council. That reminds him of the time Jean used the SWC suggestion box to let Frank Archer know he was an “absolute fuckface” when he made the decision to cut the funds that were going towards the football team.

Roy chuckles.

He doubts Jean and Heymans are too lost without him considering the former actually managed to pass his driving test and pick up a Leyland P76 from the town wreckers. He says it’s imported from Australia, which Roy guesses is plausible considering it’s a Leyland but not so plausible considering it’s a piece of fucking shit that easily could’ve come directly out of hell. Jean did seem pretty enthusiastic about the fact that there’s room for a comfortable root in the back, though, so that might be its redeeming quality.

All of a sudden, a flash of violent, Crayola yellow catches Roy’s attention as it makes itself present in the corner of his vision and he turns immediately, brow furrowed in curiosity.

There’s a kid at the counter. This means sandwiches, which is a definite plus. What’s not so much of a plus is the fact that the kid’s eyes completely destroy Roy’s sense of direction – they’re strikingly gorgeous. They’re golden, for Christ’s sake. Roy knows he swings both ways like he knows he’s going to fail Trig, but he’s still got to take a moment to reassure himself of the fact that he still like tits a _lot_ – even if the cashier of less-than-average-height is incredibly attractive.

It almost sucks, Roy has to think, when you try to escape your rote duties and end up with a fleeting sense of attraction for some kid you don’t even know the name of.

“Hey, you,” said cashier calls across the otherwise silent store. “You gonna’ order something or sit there in that little tyke’s Sunkist?”

His voice, while slightly rugged in sound, is something Roy could listen to all day. The slight rasp and adorably high frequency of it allows it the satisfactory levels of cute and sexy, even more so for someone he’s just encountered.

“Ha,” Roy starts, rising from his admittedly sticky chair and striding over to the counter. “Way to go promoting the store, kid.”

“Name’s Ed – Edward Elric – not kid,” the bridge of his nose scrunches up a little in distaste, but then he laughs. “And you think I actually _want_ to promote it? Everything about this place is shit. What’ll you have?”

“Uh,” Roy mulls over the menu briefly, his attention fleeting in staccato bursts as the fluorescent green that bands Ed’s upper arm and stripes his loose collar proves itself to be an iconic distraction. “I’ll just get the standard meatball… with tomato and lettuce.”

It’s a pretty nasty colour, in truth – green, he means – but never in his life has he found anything so awfully _sultry_ (besides the way Riza Hawkeye held her impractical accessory fan at last year’s annual school dance, as out-of-character as that had been). Then, only Roy Mustang – legendary quarterback for the Rykemount High Razorbacks and not-so legendary bisexual sucker of the nerd quarter – would ever, _could ever_ , find something so repulsive to be anywhere near sultry.

“Lotta’ ingenuity there–” The sarcastic infliction in Ed’s voice tears him from his momentary trance. “–but it sounds good to me!”

Roy watches him turn away, golden ponytail swinging behind him as though it’s actually alive. He gets a better view from this angle – with Ed not watching him and all – and the next-best thing he notices (which, for the record, actually flies straight to the top of the “Roy’s favourite things about the kid he just met in Subway” list) is his pert little ass and slim thighs. Both are perfectly complimented by the relatively tight shorts he’s wearing, and if they’re really a part of this crappy restaurant’s uniform he knows that _someone’s_ going to end up dead eventually.

“So,” Ed says, casting an unintentionally rakish grin back over his right shoulder. “You from Rykemount, or what?”

“Yeah, Rykemount,” he doubts Ed will catch onto his classic hill reference, so he keeps it simple. “How about you?”

“Kildare.” He mutters shortly.

“You’re Catholic?”

“ _Catholic_?” Ed rears a little and pokes his tongue out in disgust. A large slice of tomato falls from his pale-skinned hand, before it skids across the floor to join its lost friends. “No way! Fu – I mean, you’re not religious, are you?”

Roy can’t help but grin at the way he holds his bitter comments close and instead backs away from the topic of religion – Ed’s entertaining, that’s for certain.

“No, I’m not religious,” he laughs. “My father tried to force it down my throat, but to me it was never something that improved my performance; if it isn’t broke, don’t fix it, I suppose.”

“Performance?” Ed curls his upper lip. “What at?”

“Football,” Roy retorts. “I’ve been playing since the second grade.”

“Wait,” Ed starts, squinting intently as if trying to remember something. “Do you QB?”

“Uh,” QB, Roy decides, is an expression he’s going to be using a _lot_ more often now. The way Ed is says it is really quite darling. “Yeah, I do.”

Ed nods knowingly before turning again to open the oven – _damn_ , that’s a nice looking ass – and extract Roy’s sub which, for the record, has actually turned out to look unusually greasy. He’s pretty sure that _greasy_ is an adjective that can only truly be used to describe the bowels of fish and chip outlets – or, perhaps, Burger King – but it feels appropriate. He’s got to let his mind wander, then, because he doesn’t think they use any oil at _all_ in Subway.

Maybe it’s healthier than Riza actually says it is.

“And here’s one actually-really-shit sandwich for you, Roy Mustang.” Ed cackles, grinning as Roy’s brow twitches.

“How do you–”

“Know your name?” He laughs, cutting the dark-haired student off abruptly. “The jocks at my school say you’re a real threat – and a real jerk, which I reckon is bullshit.”

“Takes one to know one,” Roy sighs, skeptically assessing his sub before pouncing on the opportunity to change the subject when Ed doesn’t speak. “So, what’re you studying?”

“Well, I’m gonna’ be a doctor–” Ed slaps some pseudo cheese on his own bun and gestures to it. “–Which makes this kinda’ ironic, huh? I suppose you wanna’ be a _real_ QB?”

Roy’s subtle smile falls a little at that. What is it that makes him _not_ a “real” quarterback? Here he was, just half a minute prior, basking in fact that Ed didn’t find him to be a useless wanker. He just rolls his eyes and supposes ‘real quarterback’ is simply an expression the kid uses to describe those who are actually famous athletes. 

“ _Real_ quarterback?” He chuckles coolly. “Yeah. I’ve got a scholarship to be fighting for, though.”  
“Sucks to be you,” Ed giggles, before snorting and dropping his voice as some overweight man Roy assumes is a Subway regular stumbles through the door. “Look, I gotta’ serve this guy. I’ll catch you ‘round, though, Roy.”

“Sure. See you later, Ed.” Roy says, before he ducks out the door after the aforementioned customer.

He’s actually quite disappointed with the fact that their conversation ended so quickly – heck, it’d being going just gloriously – but knows he’ll be back soon enough. He sure as hell couldn’t get off on the right foot with Trig, but as Roy heads out through the mall’s arbour and on to Rykemount, he can’t help but grin as he’s done quite the contrary with Edward.


End file.
